Now, Rosalinda, it doesn’t matter.
The echo has faded, the exhibit is gone,
The rusting boats in the park are abandoned, a splatter
Which was a bodily spill of some kind
Has fled to the curator’s mind.
The statues are cold and lonely along the lawn.
The jokes which kept us going are forgotten.
The sub-dean’s dignity was exposed as rotten.
The minister’s mansion tumbles down the weedy hill.
Everything is corrupt, and corrupt inside of me.
You and I, we had our fill
Of you and I. We failed—neither gracefully nor gently.
Oh sigh. We see: our life is the depth and solidity of the sea
Covering all, except itself. See?